


A dangerous case of love

by quinault



Series: oneshots: Tom Riddle [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Amortentia, Angst, Borgin and Burkes (Harry Potter), F/M, Horcruxes, antiques, comments are appreciated!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:28:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27233530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quinault/pseuds/quinault
Summary: A surprise encounter at Borgin & Burkes turns out to be more than what Tom Riddle bargained for.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle
Series: oneshots: Tom Riddle [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1283870
Comments: 3
Kudos: 95





	A dangerous case of love

**1.**

Of all the people he might have expected on a Thursday afternoon, this girl was not one.

Tom followed her movements for a few minutes, quill dangling lazily between his fingers and an incomplete inventory list taunting him before he finally drawled out in his usual bored tone:

“Do you require any assistance?”

She continued on as though she hadn’t heard him, frayed traveling cloak hushed against the floor as she weaved between a pair of vanishing cabinets. Her voice was barely above a whisper when she spoke.

“Only looking, thank you.”

Tom arched a brow at the stock response, eyeing her dirty attire with disdain. Would he find her curled up in some corner of the shop clutching at some sob story like the vagrants he usually stumbled upon? _Please sir, I’m cold. Please sir, I’m hungry. Got nowhere else to go._ He gritted his teeth. He had been both in his life more often than he could count and he’d still never succumb to the mortification of clutching at a man’s cloaks, begging for a place to spend the night.

Or perhaps she was one of those godforsaken street peddlers. Tom cringed at the memory of one particularly opportunistic pest who had managed to get his vaporous wares through the front door before he could discourage him. It had taken him five days of gagging to scrub out the wheelbarrow of bat wing elixir out of the fine ancestral tapestry that (would have been) the cream of his weekly acquisitions. If he saw the bastard again he would break his knees.

A few tendrils of frizzy hair had come loose beneath her traveler’s cloak. He found himself leaning forward upon his elbows.

“Do let me know if you change your mind.”

But just as he was about to catch a glimpse of her face she took a sidestep and Tom found himself staring down wide open jaws.

The final roar of a taxidermied panther before the fall.

Almost as quick as she had arrived, she was gone.

**2.**

The light of Tom’s _lumos_ flickered as the package of manuscripts levitated above the stacked shelves before finding their way leisurely down to a rare cleared spot on the floor, the pixies within already bristling at the disturbance to their years-long sleep. Tom cursed at the bell that sounded from the front of the shop, kicking the box back underneath a suspiciously ordinary table before weaving his way out of the inventory.

She was stood by the front desk this time, arms crossed and gaze trained out the window into the darkened alley, as though she were in a hurry to be off again.

“Back so soon?”

His customary smile twitched like a puppet on strings when she finally met his gaze. For a second he could have sworn they had been as brutal and piercing as ice, but they instantly melted into a candy floss smile.

“Oh, couldn’t stay away. Not when there’s business that needs seeing to.”

For the first time he could really take in her appearance. Nothing striking about the pale freckled features really, the petite pointed chin she raised as soon as his eyes wandered down to examine it. He answered the challenge with amused eyes. Who did she think she was?

“And what business would that be, Miss…?”

“Granger.”

“Miss _Granger.”_

“I’m looking to sell” she stated with schoolgirlish pertness. “What I believe is a rather precious magical artifact.”

“One acquired in your travels, I presume.” Tom was gratified by the flicker of vulnerability in her eyes that informed him he had been right. And yet there was still something irritating about her. Like a word on the tip of his tongue he couldn’t quite get out.

“Yes, as a matter of fact I’ve only just returned. I would have got it off my hands as soon as possible if it hadn’t been for the nature of the object. It’s made pricing rather tricky.”

“And do you happen to have the artifact on you?”

His businesslike tone almost threatened to give way when she dug an entire arm into her large worn looking satchel, upending what sounded like an entire household’s silverware in her search. He pursed his lips. The package she finally managed to produce was wrapped in faded brown parchment, which she unwrapped with the care of a conscientious merchant. The smile, however, died on his lips once he spied the contents within.

“Where did you come by this?”

Under the shop lanterns the item refracted light in thousands of facets sharp as glass. They flitted and pranced upon the crumbling wallpaper like dancers upon the stage. A pair of gloves of the finest snakeskin he had ever seen.

“A Venetian shop far less… _Reputable_ than this one. Convinced the owner to sell for ten galleons, though I doubt even he knew what it’s really worth. It’s the magic signature that caught my attention. The texture is nothing like I’ve ever seen before.” Her voice was infused with a pointed pensiveness, as though goading him on towards something.

Tom glanced up sharply, unable to repress the itch any longer.

“Do we know each other, Miss Granger? It’s only that I’ve the _oddest_ feeling of having met before.”

Her pale face was perfectly still, except for her lips. They quirked up into a smile that was difficult to read.

“As a matter of fact we attended Hogwarts together. Same year.”

“Is that so.”

He did not remember her. An odd situation considering he had prided himself on his Hogwarts connections. Although, in all fairness, his circles had mostly been composed of _purebloods,_ of which group she appeared decidedly _not_ to belong. Was the little wench lying to him for the sake of a good price? Pathetic, if it were true, although not unheard of.

And yet his hand continued to hover covetously over the object. Like magnetism, it pulled his mind elsewhere, to the mean little room at the back of the shop and the two suitcases packed and waiting by his cot of a bed for five days already. _Prominent antiquarian poisoned by domestic!_ The fact there had been no accompanying photograph had been a small blessing. His stomach churned at the memory of the woman’s gnarled hands, sharp red nails cloying at his shirt buttons with kittenish insistence. He had made sure there would be no loose ends in the affair, of course, but he had no desire of seeing her bloated painted body again, least of all on a frontline spread of _The Daily Prophet._

He knew he should have left already—for the Continent, or for fucking Norway so long as it was far enough from here. It certainly wasn’t sentiment for the place that was holding him back. Yes, he had advanced far more rapidly than even he had initially imagined was possible for the year he had been working there. Employee of the week every week with a neat cut of the profits off the side. Perhaps it was the good looks, or perhaps it was the wolfish look of hunger in his dealings with customers—one he certainly shared with Burke, if not his moist-eyed fool of a partner **—** but the shop had been generous to him. All the same he wasn’t so taken in by the wages to forget it was all merely a stepping stone. A temporary resting place on his quest for the greater, the better.

He worried at his lip in thought. He could not explain it, and this concerned him most of all. His reasons for staying were vague at best and non-existent at worst. _Wait and see,_ something at the back of his mind whispered to him. But for what?

Under his fingertips the snakeskin of the gloves was deliciously cool to the touch. His lips twitched into a private smile. Yes, he always had had a kind of sixth sense for the truly priceless items. Even that horrid woman had said so before he had finished with her…

“—of course it’s Mr Borgin I was hoping to consult on the matter.”

Tom blinked out of his reverie at the very idea. The fool who would manage to bungle the closing of even the simplest acquisition. Not bloody likely.

“Mr Borgin, I’m afraid, is away at the moment, and Mr Burke is tangled up in a rather _ah,_ delicate case involving some family antiques. I am, however, quite capable at magic appraisal work if you will allow me to assess the item further.”

 _Cunt._ Was she doubting his abilities? His voice was steady, calm. The upright headboy reassuring a first year caught after hours in some part of the castle they certainly should not have been in. _Honest mistake, nothing to worry about. We’re all friends here after all, are we not?_ He had always had a soothing bedside manner. Not so scary as to feature in nightmares, that was for certain…But why would he think of nightmares in the first place?

**3.**

Tom led the way through the serpentine corridors, sidestepping the furniture and other curiosities that littered the way with practiced ease. He waited for the girl just behind—light steps, hesitating—before pushing open the wide wooden doors next to a row of glassy cabinets displaying all manner of charmed objects, old eyepieces and magicked traveling attire and in one case, a broom intent on its endless sweeping in spite of the shiny groove it had already left upon its display stand.

The inventory was darker than the shop front mostly shown to clients, deep shadows swooping down from high ceilings like velvet curtains, lamps dotted irregularly along the way casting pools of silvery light past towering stacks of furniture that threatened to topple on the unwary passerby. Not that there were many of those. Tom continued deeper into the shop, all the while listening for the footsteps keeping up behind him.

The workshop was merely a square area deep into the back stock more cleared of junk than the remainder of the shop. Tom made towards the only bench still scattered with the remains of a talisman that Burke had struggled to repair before pushing the unwanted task upon himself. He threw a smirk towards the girl who remained watching from the shadows. The mystery of her little package would soon be puzzled out.

The first incantations were easy, a few broad wand strokes to bring forth the texture of the immediate magical exposure, the movements of his wand growing more intricate as he turned to disentangling the foreign magical contact from the object’s underlying core.

It was not dark magic, that much had been evident when he had first encountered the object—dark magic always did have a specific _note,_ almost fragrance, that the expert could immediately sense. But it was potent nevertheless. Tom’s breath quickened as the object grew more and more stubborn against his probing until the final incantation gave way to a sharp spark. He cursed. 

“They weren’t so successful at Perrault’s either.”

The soft matter-of-fact voice felt as sharp as the sting of an animal. _Granger,_ she had said. He would certainly be making inquiries after the name once this affair was over.

“At Borgin & Burke’s we don’t easily admit defeat.”

She seemed immune to the acidity of his tone as she responded immediately.

“And how long have you been employed here?”

He answered without looking up from the next round of spells, voice strained.

“Nearly a year now, as a matter of fact.”

“You enjoy it.”

It was not a question. He weighed it carefully in his mind.

“I find the challenge…Pleasing. It’s not easy to restore objects with such intricate magical history.”

The girl hummed in response. “I happen to be something of a collector myself. Only amateur, of course.” She was pacing around the shelves now, and despite the darkness Tom could tell she was eyeing the artifacts with interest now, fingers light as they brushed against the price tags. 

“Actually, I’ve been rather taken with a particular kind of magical object lately. I don’t suppose you know anything about _horcruxes._ ”

Tom stilled, wand frozen in his hand. He had misheard. But no, she was still staring at him, eyes glittering with something that made his stomach twist. Something that made his blood thrum to a half recalled beat. In his mind Hepzibah Smith twitched like an insect upon linoleum floors. 

He made sure every syllable was professional steadiness when he next spoke. “I’m afraid we don’t carry items of _that_ nature here…”

“—it was a friend of mine who had the real knack for them.” She continued thoughtfully as though he hadn’t spoken. _“Finding_ them. Solving the—the _puzzle_ within them. You could almost call it a gift. Only it wasn’t. Cost him everything.”

“How…unfortunate for him.”

“He was never given a choice.”

For a brief moment the silence was deafening. And then, just as quickly, like a strike of lightning, Tom had placed it. The automatic, unconscious swivel of the head each time she’d walked through the doors into foreign territory, the gaze fixed relentlessly forward and imperturbable to polite conversation. The ticks of the soldier who had yet to shake off the battlefield.

“No luck with that?”

He frowned at the gloves, stunned out of his reverie. “I—”

“Maybe you ought to put them on.”

He gave her a lingering gaze before gingerly picking up one of the gloves. Stripped of the foreign magical influences now they were lighter to the touch, but still there was a curious sort of charge to them. Something, _something_ something that compelled him to slowly raise the object up to his face and simply… _Inhale._

Crash of waves against towering rock. He was eight years old, whipped by sea breeze and drunk in screams, triumphant in fear that was not his own. And then the sensations were swirling into one another, into polished mahogany and rows upon rows of boxes that whispered to one another in human voices of strange pains and terrible pleasures that interweaved like counterpoint, called his name with savage urgency until it was drowned out by something far gentler, a warm rocking sweetness that split his brains soon as it brushed past, made him heave in breath after breath, try and take it into his fucking pores, into his fucking _bloodstream_ before it was too late, before it left him again, _again_ always fucking gone—

Objects crashed to the floor in a thunderous bang. He fumbled for the bench, for some anchor against the sensations that threatened to obliterate him. Before him the girl’s silhouette wavered like a funhouse mirror. The rage that surged behind his eyelids was white hot and incinerating.

What the fuck had she done to him?

He would make her scream for this. He would, _he would—_

He could only stumble a few steps before he collapsed at her feet with a groan. 

It was too dark, too dark to see by. The very air seemed to pulse with poison. He had to see her. He clawed at her skirts, glove forgotten in his hand, as she thrashed against his grasp. Flash of pain when she dug her nails into his wrists in an attempt to tear free. He pushed aside the pain. He had to— _he had to—_ His mind hurtled forward without rescue. Free fall. He clutched at her tighter as she thrashed all the more, lip curled and eyes shining as she stared down at him. A blaze of pure loathing. In his veins his blood singed.

The wand jabbed into his jugular without warning.

“Where are they?” Her voice was steel, merciless. It sent an instant thrill through him. “The horcruxes.”

The fragrance of her skin was intoxicating. Without thinking he leaned forward, wand still cutting into his throat, and buried his face into her waist—into the folds and folds of her tattered cloak, the warmth of bare skin maddening just beneath. 

“Would you like to see them?”

He was unprepared for the quick switch that had her nails latched to his scalp, his head tilted back and staring into her eyes darkened with loathing. And his blood throbbed wildly, insistently with each passing breath.

“I don’t have your taste for silly games.” _Love! Love! This was fucking love!_ “I know you have them. And you’re going to bring them to me, _now,_ without any fucking tricks or I will let fiendfyre turn this whole place into a husk. I am not joking.” ~~~~

Once the quiet blaze of her voice had filled up his mind there was no room for his conscious mind screaming, scampering for control, no room for anything except her _her her._

Slowly he got off his knees, an easy smile spread across his face. He might have died for her right there without a moment’s hesitation.

**4.**

The headache was splintering when Tom woke up. He floundered for several minutes in search of his wand before first the oriental carpet and then the tool bench came into focus before him. He rubbed his temples wearily. How much firewhiskey had he had to drink last night? His mind drew a blank. He kept searching to no avail. It was all a blank.

“Pardon me?”

“—The centaurhide chest, as I was saying Mr Riddle. Now as it has been in my family for at least sixty generations I do believe the estimate ought to reflect its noble and most impressive heritage—“

He blinked slowly, letting the shrill voice sync up with the motion of the cherry red lips. Sloppily painted. Some pureblood whore who’d managed to get her claws into daddy’s stash for a few extra galleons. Tom had the satisfaction of seeing her eyes light up in pleasure when he smiled back, his hands already inching towards the artifact _du jour_ on the counter before him before a throb of pain slammed through his body. 

“Oh my. Are you quite alright?”

A single wince was enough to transform the watery outlines of the tattered book stacks back into distinct shapes. He exhaled noisily as the backs of his knees found the high stool pushed up against the wall. 

“Yes, perhaps that’s a good idea. Do sit down, yes. You’re positively turning green, Mr Riddle! Case of the dragon pox perhaps—certainly been going around. You ought to be more careful. Shall I come back later?”

“That may be a good idea” he echoed, pain barely disguised through gritted teeth.

Vaguely he could tell the woman was nodding. Chest tucked back under one silk robed arm, she turned on her heel on her way out.

Tom’s stomach churned dangerously. There was something he was forgetting. He was sure of it. It was important. If only he could just—

Clang of the bell as the door shut behind her and his eyes briefly followed the plump shape before it disappeared into the swirling fog of the alleyway. Something missing. Like someone had peered inside his mind and scooped out something he needed. Something crucial—

He’d barely had time to construct the thought before his attention was drawn to something white, aflutter from the draft of the door being shut. He inched forward cautiously, still unsteady on his feet and with the vague paranoid inclination of being a goldfish in a bowl, a pale freckled face tap-tapping behind the glass…

It was a piece of paper, punctured and dangling by the fangs of the old taxidermied panther that had been stationed by the book stacks, unsold, since the shop’s opening some hundred years ago. The handwriting was small, cramped, but it filled him with an odd sense of déjà vu. Where had he seen it before?

Voice murky, as though drowsy with memory. _As a matter of fact, we attended Hogwarts together. Same year._ He narrowed his eyes _._

***

_By now you will probably realize what is missing._

_I want you to know I don’t take them lightly. I won’t sell them, or hide them away or do anything to ensure they get mixed up in the kind of reputation that followed them in the place where I come from. In fact, I intend to destroy them at the earliest opportunity because they’re foul objects that should never have seen the light of day if not for stupid, disgusting greed transforming them into things that never had a right to exist in civilized society._

_I won’t let this poison win. I may never be able to go home again, but I will never let that happen. Not while there is still something left of myself to keep fighting. And yes, in spite of everything I still have hope I can do some good here. And this is the start._

_Don’t look for me. You will never touch me or my life ever again._

_—A soldier of Albus Dumbledore_

He eyed the thin, even signature at the bottom until his vision started to blur again. And then, with the single flick of a wrist, he set the whole thing on fire.

_Yes, there had been—_

A small waif-like creature, buried deep under the cover of a book. Restricted section. His territory. What are you doing here? _I’m sorry, I was just lost._ Disbelief. It’s awfully late for such a session of cramming. Perhaps a little rest would do you good— _I can’t sleep._ Small rattle of a voice. Eyes chocolate brown, childlike earnestness under the light of the candles. _I have terrible dreams._ Intrigue. Perhaps I can be of some assistance. Headboy badge polished and glinting under the light of the candles. Hesitation. Fingers clutched tight around her wand. She might have been pretty, if not for the—Frown. If not for the— _I ought to be going now. Sorry for the trouble._

Hermione Granger.

She had singed her name inside his mind without knowing it. He sounded it out. _Hermione._ A small keepsake, but it would be enough. This time, he would make sure to remember.


End file.
